


Come Up

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once or twice before, he’d wanted someone closer.  Simple companionship.  To be able to trust.  To give; to receive.  Just... to trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Up

.........

There was no aspect of his appearance that escaped Mycroft’s conscious deliberation. Head to foot, hand to hand; every detail was given full consideration. Every smile, every least stitch, was crafted to create distance.

If you look, don’t look too long. If you notice, don’t notice too much. If you come close, be prepared for the consequences...

...and don’t you dare touch.

He’d worn a ring for ten years. It had never had a pair.

He didn’t disdain sex, or its more glamourous cousin, love. He didn’t pretend that he didn’t understand. Sherlock could get away with that. For Mycroft, ignorance, of even the least little inconsequential quirk of humanity, could be fatal.

There were moments when he felt he had been touched by grace, to have escaped desire. But even grace has its price.

Once or twice before, he’d wanted someone closer. Simple companionship. To be able to trust. To give; to receive. Just... to trust.

Who knew better than he how very fragile every single damned thing in this deceptively simple world was? Mycroft trembled, and knew instantly it had been noticed.

“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked, leaning closer. They stood together, watching Sherlock stalk off into the night with John, ever faithful, at his side. Constant. It warmed Mycroft’s heart, as very little did.

“I’ve been better,” Mycroft answered honestly, and then laughed. It was a bit on the anxious side, but he didn’t think he could hide that.

Possibly he didn’t want to, at that.

Lestrade was smiling too, with easy charm. “I think we’ve all been.”

“You’ll find some way to explain the, ah, discovery?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean when the neighbours complained?” Lestrade blinked at him, all innocence. “Strange noises, bad odours? Something like that, I heard.”

“With a tweak here or there, I believe that could work,” Mycroft said gravely, then laughed again. He felt distanced from himself. Lestrade’s hand curled around his wrist.

“You aren’t all right,” Lestrade said, and it was to his very great credit that he didn’t say anything more than that. No surprise, no smug comments. Only efficient and almost gentle manhandling; competence in action. Could Mycroft have expected less of a Detective Inspector?

Yes, but not of this one in particular.

And it was very nice, to lean on someone else for a moment.

.........

“Do-- do you want to talk about it?”

No.

No, Mycroft did not want to talk about it. He did not want to think about it. He did not want to be experiencing it, whatever it was (hysteria? shock? could it be described in a word, a single word, this complete and utter shutdown of self and all the systems he’d set up around that self for years and years and)

“Breathe.”

Mycroft blinked, surprised to hear the command in Lestrade’s voice. Surprised that he obeyed it, unthinkingly.

They continued in silence for some time, the car moving swift and silent as a ghost through the crowded city. Mycroft resolutely did not fidget with his umbrella. He did not move.

But he did breathe.

“Bloody...” Lestrade sighed. “Look. He’s all right, isn’t he? Sherlock’s fine.”

“I thought--” Mycroft shut his eyes and tried to take the words back. Wished Lestrade would speak; let his voice wash away the ugly paths scored by Mycroft’s own. But the Detective Inspector wasn’t so obliging.

Was he employing interrogation techniques? Sit back, be silent, let the suspect incriminate himself? Somewhere deep, but not as deep as it should be, an hysterical sort of giggle sounded in his brain.

It wouldn’t have worked. It shouldn’t have worked, except that Mycroft wanted, for the first time in all his life, to confess. To give it up. His dimly-sensed appreciation for Lestrade was growing. “I thought he would wait a month or so before trying to get himself killed again.”

“Fairly certain that would qualify as ‘boring’ for Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said easily.

“I can’t do anything about him,” Mycroft said, and for the first time, he really understood it. He felt the weight of those words, and their meaning.

Lestrade shrugged. “Neither can I, and I’m issued handcuffs.”

“What do I do?” Mycroft couldn’t believe he was asking, but couldn’t not ask.

“Resign yourself to the whole, running ‘round after him with a safety net, I guess.”

Mycroft, unwillingly, grinned. “It seems an apt metaphor.”

“Don’t expect it is; I’m sure he’ll need one eventually,” Lestrade said, a light, humour-woven weariness in his tone. Mycroft looked towards the window, mentally ceding the round.

.........

The car rolled to stop in the private garage of one of Mycroft’s residences. He shifted, slightly, and his umbrella fell to the floor. It was the most surreal moment of his life, reaching to pick up his umbrella and tangling his fingers with Lestrade’s.

Longing hit him powerfully, undeniably; he did not want Lestrade to leave. He didn’t want this moment to end. Lestrade’s wide eyes met his, until Mycroft’s gaze was drawn by the way Lestrade licked his lips nervously.

What would he give, to let it continue? What wouldn’t he?

“Come up,” he whispered, just a hint of wistfulness washing over the words.

Lestrade’s gaze darted to Mycroft’s mouth and then back, to his eyes, matching wide-eyed stares. Such a deep shade of brown. Mycroft noted his wide pupils; his quick and gulping breath. For a fleeting moment he wished he, too, could feel such arousal; it must be beautiful, overwhelming. Grand.

He traced around Lestrade’s knuckle with his index finger and almost laughed at how his eyelids fluttered. It was a simple enough equation. Gratitude rose up in him like a flood of light; he’d lost his control to this man and now he’d been given it back, control not only of himself, but of the other. He felt refreshed; he felt whole. There was little he wouldn’t give, to make up the debt he owed.

Gratitude, and something deeper, when Lestrade nodded and climbed out of the car with him.

.........

**Author's Note:**

> So at some point I wrote a few hundred words of asexual!Mycroft perving on Lestrade. Because, um. Why not?
> 
> You can tell by my WORDS I am not British. You can tell by my MISTAKES this thing ain't beta-ed. You can tell by my TITLE I have no idea where this thing is going, or if it's done moving now. You can tell by the simple fact this is posted on AO3 that I'm just playing around; none of it's mine.


End file.
